


a fighting chance

by professortennant



Category: New Amsterdam (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kissing, Post-Episode: s01e20 Preventable, Post-Preventable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 20:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: "Help me, Helen. Be my doctor again, help me fight this.”She tried to pull away, shaking her head in rejection of the idea, old fears floating back to the surface of her mind. But he held onto her and kept her close.“Why?” he demanded. He was good at that: demanding, pulling every last inch of information from you until he was satisfied he held all the cards and got what he wanted.It was intoxicating and she would drown in it if she didn’t leave and make her escape.“I told you why already, Max. I can’t be everything to you. I--”“What if you already are?” he asked quietly.





	a fighting chance

**Author's Note:**

> the rooftop scene (and the pathology room scene tbh) both needed a little something extra. so here's my something extra.

“You could have told me,” Helen says softly, eyes overlooking the city with its glimmering and flickering lights of the people below. 

It was becoming habit, this. Her, Max, conversations hidden under the cover of a whipping wind, and a rooftop.

She felt Max’s eyes on her, considering her for a moment.

“You’re not my doctor anymore, Helen. You made that very clear.”

The wind couldn’t cover the sharpness of his voice, nor his hurt. She turned to face him, heart in her throat. This distance between them--the boundaries--were supposed to help preserve and protect their relationship, not push them further apart.

“I’m  _also_  your friend, Max.”

“Are you?” he asked quickly, eyes meeting hers directly. "Because I’m not so sure these days.”

Her chest flooded with warmth and an uncomfortable tightness at the hurt in his voice, at the way he could  _doubt_  the relationship that had been built up so quickly between them since his first day at New Amsterdam.

“I stopped being your doctor so I  _could_  be your friend. I can’t be the one who--” 

She thought of the nightmares that had kept her up these last few weeks: Max, alone and dying and calling out for her, wasting away and begging for her to help. Max, dying and staring at her with accusatory eyes and demanding to know why she couldn’t save him.

She couldn’t bear the thought of being the doctor who had failed him.

Tears welled up in her eyes and emotion lodged thick in her throat, cutting off her words. She turned back to the bustling city below and cleared her throat, swallowing hard, trying to collect herself again.

A warm, dry hand slipped into hers, squeezing softly. 

“Hey,” Max said softly, his thumb rubbing back and forth lightly, absentmindedly, over the back of her hand. “I’m the one dying of cancer, remember? Cheer up,” he teased.

She laughed and swiped at a stray tear that had escaped the corner of her eye.  _This_  was the Max she knew and cared about. 

Her eyes fell to their joined hands, focused on the way the nerves in her hand tingled, the way her palm felt like electricity everywhere he was touching her, the way the back of her hand felt like it was on fire with each swipe of his thumb. 

This was dangerous. 

She pulled her hand from his and crossed her arms across her chest, protecting herself against the biting cold of the weather out on the rooftop and the increasing urge to just touch him for reassurance. 

Max looked at her for a moment--just looked--and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other under his scrutiny. Those piercing eyes of his had a way of seeing through her, seeing into the heart of the matter. She didn’t need him to see the real reason she had to pull away, to put distance between them. 

“My chances for dying went significantly up today,” he said matter-of-factly. “I fight  _so damn hard_  for every single patient in this hospital, for every single staff member, for  _everything._  And, honestly? I’m not sure I have enough fight left in me for  _me.”_

The defeat in his voice made her act without thinking. Doctor or not, boundaries or not, this was a man she cared deeply for and he was hurting and she could do something about it.

She put her hand against his cheek and tilted his face down so he was looking at her, ensuring that he heard what she was about to promise him.

“Let me do some of the fighting for you, Max,” she urged. “You  _can_  beat this. You  _will_  beat this. But only if you let me help you.”

Max covered her hand on his face with his own hand, pressing it closer so she could feel the rough stubble of his beard against her palm. It was equally as electrifying.

“Then  _help_  me, Helen. Be my doctor again, help me fight this.”

She tried to pull away, shaking her head in rejection of the idea, old fears floating back to the surface of her mind. But he held onto her and kept her close. 

“Why?” he demanded. He was good at that: demanding, pulling every last inch of information from you until he was satisfied he held all the cards and got what he wanted. 

It was intoxicating and she would drown in it if she didn’t leave and make her escape.

“I told you why already, Max. I can’t be everything to you. I--”

“What if you already are?” he asked quietly, interrupting her. His hand tightened against hers, his cheek pressing insistently into the cradle of her hand. 

Her heart beat so hard in her chest it was almost painful. Her mouth went dry and her mind went momentarily blank as she processed what he was telling her.

_You’re already everything to me._

This was everything she had once dreamt of-- _still_  dreamt of, occasionally. But she needed to be strong. She needed to establish their boundaries again. She needed to walk away.

“The last thing you need is another complication,” she reminded him. Her thumb swiped over the sharp jut of his cheek, a reminder at the weight he was losing, the battle he was facing. 

“You’re not a complication,” he argued. “You’re--” He searched for the words, eyes roaming her face before smiling softly at her. “You’re the easiest, least complicated thing in my life.”

Tears stung at her eyes and she bit her lip, ducking her head. “I  _can’t_ ,” she pleaded with him, pulling her hand away from his cheek, wiping at her eyes and looking away. “I’ll talk to Dr. Staunton about your chemo. I’ve been looking into dose dense regimens that I think may be helpful, but the adverse side effects are traumatizing to the body.”

“Helen,” Max interrupted, reaching for her. But she stepped back out of reach. He stared at her, pleading with wide, searching eyes. 

It would be easy--so easy--to wrap her arms around him, press her lips to the base of his throat, and whisper a promise into his skin. 

“I’ll go talk to Dr. Staunton now, actually,” she said hastily, heart beating wildly in her chest and her brain screaming at her to run away. “I’ll see you around, Max. Don’t stay out here too long.” 

She flashed him a thin, wane smile--false and shallow--before turning on her heel and finally making her escape, just a few short strides to the rooftop’s door.

And then the world was spinning as she was turned around and wrapped in warm, safe arms. She pressed her palms against his chest, fingers curling into the material of his jacket, and she looked up at him startled.

“Max, what--”

But the rest of her question was cut off with a muffled  _mmph_  as his lips pressed against hers, hard and fast, as if terrified she would push him away.

Shock flooded her veins. Max was kissing her.  _Max_  was kissing her.

All at once, the sounds of the city floated away, the freezing temperatures became a background detail. All she could think and feel was Max.

Her fingers curled into his jacket and pulled him closer. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and pressed herself up into the kiss, mouth and lips softening against his. 

At the feel of her responding and participating in the kiss, he relaxed against her. His grip loosened on her upper arms and slid down the length of her arms, sliding around her waist and hauling her closer. 

The kiss was relatively chaste, just a press and press and press of lips against the other’s mouth, soft and searching and reassuring. She broke the kiss with a soft swipe of her tongue across the seam of his mouth, drawing a groan from low in Max’s throat. 

Panting slightly, they pressed their foreheads together and closed their eyes, reveling in this single, stolen moment. She would remember the way his lips were chapped and soft against hers, the way his big hands slid beneath her jacket and searched for skin to stroke, the way his heart felt pounding against her palm. 

A memory is all she would allow herself. This would never happen again--not while he was undergoing chemotherapy, not while that ring was still around his finger. 

She licked her lips and pulled away, reaching up and rubbing her thumb over his bottom lip where it glistened slightly in the rooftop’s dim lighting.

“You get that one because it’s been that kind of day. But we leave it here on this rooftop.”

He looked pained, like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to suggest they never leave this rooftop, then. And then, like every movement physically hurt him, he pulled away from her and stepped back.

“Okay,” he agreed softly. “Rooftop lockup, got it.”

Her fingers curled into her palms to stop herself from reaching for him again and she forced herself to step back and turn back around. She and Dr. Staunton needed to talk. The rooftop door echoed in the empty stairwell inside the hospital and she resisted the urge to look through the small window out onto the rooftop. 

The sight of him alone and hunched over against the biting wind would be her undoing.

She couldn’t be his everything, but she could give him this: a fighting chance and maybe, just maybe, a reason to keep fighting for the future.


End file.
